Legends
by Elfpen
Summary: Post-Manga/FMAB. Alphonse Elric has been living and studying in Xing for a little more than a year and a half. Now, Ling has asked him - ordered him - to take on a new responsibility and fill the shoes vacated by Van Hohenheim four centuries ago. But what use are legends, really, when they're all frauds? The Son of Heaven and the Son of the Western Sage see it differently.


**Author's Note:** MASSIVE disclaimer: I am so far from an expert in Chinese culture or tradition, it's laughable. I had a blast learning more about dress and art and tradition and so forth, but I know very little except that which a few friends have told me and what I've been able to learn online. I've borrowed heavily from Chinese culture, but not all of it is 100% accurate, and I know I got some stuff wrong, so hope you'll forgive me - and tell me what I got wrong and why! Some of it was intentional on my part but most of it is just that I don't know, but I'd love to learn!

On this topic, thank you, thank you thank you to Eirian Erisdar, who read the first draft of this and then basically listed, in detail, all the parts where someone would've been executed, and advised me on how to fix them. She has been very patiently teaching me _so much_ about Chinese tradition/culture/style and I'm honestly falling more and more in love with it. She's given me crazy amounts of info and advice on just about everything you read in this fic, from names to color of apparel to the layout of the palace, and I can't say thanks enough! I've had a lot of fun learning from you, Eirian! You probably saved Alphonse's life a few times, and both he and I thank you.

* * *

If you were relying purely on the legends, it was impossible to tell who the figure in the statue was supposed to be unless you already knew. Considering it was located in the gardens just outside of the Emperor's grand palace, if you found yourself resting in the statue's secluded shadow, whoever had escorted you there would've already told you the story. Alphonse Elric didn't need a story. The ancient craftsmen had had an astonishing sense of realism, because the line of the nose, the set of the jaw, the eternal half-frown was just as he remembered. Alphonse would recognize his father anywhere.

He'd had a shock when he discovered the statue during his first few weeks in Xing, and Mei had only belatedly remembered that it existed. The Western Sage was a figure so enmeshed in the lore of Xing that Mei – and indeed, Alphonse himself – often forgot that he was one and the same with Van Hohenheim. After overcoming his surprise, Alphonse grew to love the monument and the isolated, hedged ring of benches that surrounded it. It was his favorite place to sit and think. Of late, he'd had a lot to think about.

"Ling told me he was going to do this, I shouldn't be so surprised," Alphonse said, not looking up from the scroll he was holding. After a year and a half in Xing, his grasp on their written language was still tenuous at best, but he knew enough to understand the missive. "I guess I didn't actually believe him. But now…" He looked up at the unmoving render of his father, long hair and trim beard limned in icy moonlight. "Is he _really_ sure this is a good idea?"

The Western Sage, as ever, had little to say. Alphonse sighed. He missed Hohenheim often when he visited here, missed the days that they'd had together and the many more they hadn't. But now, with uncertainty twisting his stomach tighter than he'd ever felt it, he missed his father all the more. He watched the monument in silence.

Mei had told him that originally, the statue's hair and eyes had been gilded in actual gold, but over the centuries rain and wind had tarnished and chipped away at the thin layer so much that it now blended in with the granite. The late Master Rashi, the former court alkahestrist, had wanted to restore the gilding, but Mei's father had thought it would look terribly gaudy. Alphonse tried to imagine it now and smiled, inclined to agree with the late Emperor. He supposed he could transmute new gilding himself, but somehow he suspected his father would've preferred it this way: chipped, weathered, covered in lichen and grime.

"I guess the world was different when you did this," Alphonse complained, "but you had all the time in the world to study before hand. I can barely write my own name in Xingese, how does Ling think the clans are going to stand for this? I can't even do alkahestry. Do you know, I was trying to throw a set of _kunai_ a few days ago, and I broke a three-hundred year old vase. _It was in another building."_ Alphonse sighed, and eyed the colonies of lichen and moss on the statue. "I guess it was younger than you, but that doesn't make me feel any better."

He read the letter again, and again after that, to be sure. "Everyone here treats me so well. I know it's because of you. Or Mei, maybe. But I'm not you, and I'm not as good as Mei. If anyone should be court sage, it should be her." He tossed the scroll aside and crossed his arms. "And I'm not like you. I don't know so many languages, I'm not teaching _them_ alkahestry, they're teaching _me._ I don't have a philosopher's stone, I'm not immortal, I don't know any better about anything than they do, I couldn't even function in this country if it weren't for Mei, and Ling, and everyone who's been so nice to me. I'm just a bumbling idiot." He hadn't realized how lost he felt until he said it all out loud.

"The way Ling talks about me…" he found the scroll again and rustled through it. "Listen to this. First off, they don't even call me by my name, it's all _Son of the Western Sage_ this and _Son of the Western Sage_ that, like that's going to help, no pressure at all. And apparently there's going to be this big ceremony? And _all of the clans_ have to be present? Do you _know_ how many clans there are?" He looked incredulously up at his father and then scowled. "Well, I mean of course you do, but… ugh!" he put his face in his hands. "It's all crazy. I'm not whatever they think I am."

He sat, engrossed in thought, while the moon continued its nightly trek across the sky. Sometime before midnight, a light rain began to fall. Alphonse heaved himself up with a sigh and tucked Ling's letter under his robe.

"Well," Alphonse said softly to the night, "Thanks, dad." His eyes lingered on the statue and he pursed his lips tightly together to keep his emotions in check. "I really wish you were here," he said, quieter than before. He returned to his rooms and slept fitfully until morning.

* * *

Since time immemorial, the Emperors of Xing had employed a retinue of craftsmen and women to attend to their every worldly need, to ensure that the Son of Heaven would always be guaranteed the finest existence that Xing had to offer. This included among many other things, their clothes.

The numerous sons and daughters of the Peng family had fought over the right to be called the Emperor's Chosen Tailor for nine generations. The title's current host embodied the determination that such an ascent had required of him. Ju Peng was short, skinny, and dominated absolutely any room he was put into.

"No, no, _no,"_ he waved his assistant away, and she squeaked, dodging his hands as they flailed in insistent gestures. "I said _sky_ blue, not _powder_ blue, were you even _listening_ to me? Go!" the girl gripped the bolt of powder blue fabric and scurried away from her much shorter employer. "And don't come back with any of that cotton swill,we will be using silk, and silk only!" Peng turned when the door to his workshop opened.

"That was fast," he deadpanned.

"We've brought the painting that you requested, sir," said the palace guard, voice straining as he carried in an unwieldy, wrapped frame into the tailor's shop.

" _I_ did not ask for it," Ju replied promptly, crossing his arms in a flourish. " _I_ don't need to see it. I've seen it before and I've got enough brain to remember what a sky blue zhiju looks like."

"I've been instructed to deliver this painting to you, and so I'm delivering it," the guard's commander stepped around his subordinate and didn't bat an eye when the boy lost his balance and struggled to keep the four-hundred year old painting from toppling to the floor. "If you have a problem with that, take it up with the Emperor."

Ju tsked and ignored the commander. He glanced at the guard, who was sweating bullets as he scrambled with his cargo.

"Does he need help?" the tailor asked.

"I'm fine," the boy wheezed.

"Put it here," the commander pointed to the tailor's workbench.

"Put it there and I'll strangle you," said the Chosen Tailor. "That trim is worth more than both of you."

They found a mutually agreeable table on which to prop up the frame and unwrap it. They gazed at it in pensive silence. Ju squinted at it until his eyes appeared completely closed. He twisted the thin, styled tip of his beard.

"The blue does help bring out the gold. But there's something…"

"I've brought the silk, Mister Peng," Ju looked up to see his assistant holding a large bolt of sky blue mulberry silk. His shoulders slumped.

"Oh, Shuang," the tailor effused, and went over to the bewildered assistant and cupped her face in his hands. "You poor blind girl. Does that _look,"_ he dragged her over to the portrait, one hand gripping her face and holding it up inches away from the image, "like it matches _this_?"

Face immobilized, Shuang swiveled her eyes to look at the bolt, and the painting, the bolt, and then the painting. "...Yes?" She said, face squished. This was, apparently, the wrong answer.

"It's supposed to be _stormy_ sky blue, can't you see?" Ju pointed, "Like the sky in the hour before a thunderstorm, when the fading sun illuminates the clouds and the wind drives the birds to their nests!"

All three of his spectators stared at the painting, and then at Ju.

"Ugh!" He tossed his hands, releasing Shuang from his grip. He rolled up his sleeves. "I will not dress the Son of the Western Sage in some slap-dash cheap-dyed knock-off. I'll get it myself."

Shuang watched him stalk off into the library of fabrics, muttering something about being unappreciated in his time. She turned her attention to the painting, which depicted a blue-clad blond standing beside one of Xing's emperors of centuries past. The palace guard and his commander examined the portrait with her.

"I dunno," said the young guard, "it looks like sky blue to me," he said.

"I need the sage's measurements," Ju reappeared and tossed a heavy bolt of silk in Shuang's direction. She barely had time to turn around before it fell into her arms. Ju flicked his wrists and tipped his chin, and his clothes seemed to fall into place of their own accord. "Have the silk laid out by the time I'm back, fetch two metres of onyx silk and one of argentate, and get out your embroidery needles. We have _work_ to do!"

"Y-yes sir!" Shuang replied immediately, but the Chosen Tailor was already gone.

* * *

Alphonse's favorite afternoons were those he got to spend in Mei Chang's company. As a guest of the Emperor, Alphonse had been granted a sizable set of rooms in a large guest house outside the palace. Over the long months of study, his richly appointed sitting room had transformed into a miniature library, strewn with books and scrolls and whatever Xingese artifacts he'd been allowed to take for study. Most afternoons he shared the space with Mei, who was trying her best to teach him the ways of the Dragon's Pulse. His alkahestry skills were rudimentary, but progressing. His progress in other arenas was… challenged.

The princess and the Amestrian sat across from each other on the floor, enjoying the breeze of the open window. The Amestrian was bent over a pad of paper with an ink brush gripped in his fist. He was completely concentrated on his task, blond eyebrows drawn low, the very tip of his tongue sticking out of his mouth as he wrote. It was absolutely adorable, which made Mei's job incredibly hard.

"Alphonse," the princess began hesitantly, holding out a piece of paper, "what… what were you trying to write here?" She indicated the column of unsteady characters he'd given to her for appraisal. Alphonse looked up, glanced at the characters on the page, and then at Mei's apologetic, confused expression.

"You… You can't even tell? Ugh," Alphonse's shoulders drooped and he fell back to lie on the floor. He grabbed his face in frustration, not noticing when his brush dripped ink onto his cheek. "This is hopeless," he moaned.

"No it's not," Mei tossed the practice sheet aside and stood. "Get up, you have to keep practicing." Mei tugged on his wrist, but he was dead weight. "You'll never get better if you give up now!" She kept tugging on his arm, straining to her full height and leaning back for leverage. He didn't budge.

"Does the ceremony have to involve _me_ writing? Why can't you do it for me?"

"It's symbolic, it has to be you. Now come on – the Alphonse I know always says to never give up, so he shouldn't be so - ah!" Mei's foot slipped on one of the many sheets of paper strewn about the floor, and she fell back to the ground, where her foot found firm purchase against Alphonse's ribs. The Amestrian sat bolt upright.

"Ow!" He yowled, cradling his side. "What'd you do that for?"

Mei hadn't done it on purpose, but she wasn't going to tell Alphonse that. "Well it made you get up, didn't it?"

"I think you broke something," Al complained.

"Oh, I did not, you big baby. Get up, let me see." Mei coaxed him to standing and peered critically at him. She couldn't see his ribs, so she poked at them instead.

"Ow! I just said you hurt me, so you want to hurt me some more?" He pulled her hands away.

"They're not broken," Mei told him, "you're fine."

Unexpectedly, Al reached out and jabbed her in the ribs.

"Ow!" she exclaimed.

"See - it hurts!"

"How dare you attack a lady, sir?" Mei said with exaggerated effront, holding a hand to her chest.

"This one attacked me first," Al told her angrily, "It was self defense."

Mei poked him in the ribs, harder this time.

"Ow!"

"It was self defense!"

"Oh, come on, that was _not-_ "

"Is this a bad time, your highness?"

Mei and Alphonse turned together to see a longsuffering footman standing in the doorway beside a finely dressed and groomed man, who bowed low to both of them.

"Princess Chang, Master Elric,"

"It's- It's just Alphonse, really," the Amestrian was blushing, "you don't have to call me-" Mei elbowed him, and he shut up.

"I am Ju Peng, his excellency the Emperor's tailor," the man explained, in a voice Al could only describe as simultaneously pragmatic and theatrical. He gave Al a smile. "It is an honor to finally meet you, your grace. I've come to take your measurements."

"Oh!" Mei's face lit up. "Of course, come in."

"What?" Said Alphonse, even as Mei ushered Ju into the room.

"He's here to measure you for your outfit, for the ceremony," the princess grinned at him.

"O-oh, okay," Alphonse knew he had no say in the matter. Mei swept aside their writing practice and set Al in an empty spot where Ju could circle him with a measuring tape and a note tablet.

"I mean," chuckled the alchemist to the tailor, "it's not… it's not _that_ soon, right? Surely it doesn't take that long to make one outfit, right?" He chuckled nervously.

"All of the clans will be present," Ju told him, chest puffing up in pride. "And the title of Imperial Sage has not been filled in four hundred years. His Excellency wishes you to leave something of an impression. It is my job to make it a _perfect_ impression. If you could please raise your arms, your Grace - thank you."

"Oh," Alphonse said, raising and lowering his arms in an expressionless daze. "Right." Mei watched him with something like concern or pity in her eyes, but Alphonse wasn't paying attention. His gaze was drawn out the open window where, through the trees, he could see a large retinue headed up the road toward the imperial palace. "Who is that?" he asked.

Mei went to the window, and gasped. "It's the head of the Yao clan - they must be arriving for the ceremony!" She said excitedly.

"But it's not for three weeks," Alphonse panicked.

"Yes, but the Emperor's family has to arrive first, of course. They'll be so excited to meet you!"

Ju spread the measuring tape across the span of Alphonse's shoulders, and the light touch of his thumbnails through his shirt felt like stakes in his flesh, pinning him in place. "Yeah," he said.

* * *

The Yao clan was the first to arrive, and the first to present themselves to Ling's court. Perhaps his oldest cousin had expected Ling to show deference to a clansman, but Quan Yao was in for a surprise.

Even as he entered the hall in a dutiful hunch, Quan was all smiles. He folded into an easy kowtow and bid a formal greeting with informal familiarity. "It is a pleasure and an honor to see you again, your Excellency," he added on at the end.

Quan had expected his clansman would bid him to rise immediately, that he'd look up to see little Ling Yao smiling at him, but instead, there was silence. This unexpected change in plans made Quan's shoulders twitch, unprepared for such a long stay on the floor. Above him, where Quan could not see, Ling remained silent. Quan's smile evaporated. His fingertips began to feel cold. He opened his mouth to speak again, but just as the words caught in his throat,

"Get up," the Emperor ordered.

Quan lifted his head, choking on the half-formed words he'd been planning. In his hesitation, he glanced at his cousin as if expecting an explanation. Little Ling Yao lifted his chin, magnanimity incarnate.

"I'm pleased you're here too," Ling told him. It sounded like a threat. "It's been too long since your last visit." That one _was_ a threat.

"Your _Excellency,_ " Quan acknowledged uncertainly. Unsure of what else to do, he bowed his head low once more.

Ling let him.

* * *

Ling had taken Alphonse aside a full hour before the Yao clan's welcome dinner to prepare Alphonse to meet his mother.

"Don't look her in the eye, but don't ignore her. Smile, but don't smile too much. Don't pass anything to her, but make sure she always has what she wants. She doesn't trust silent men, so talk to her, but don't tell too many stories. Don't look, don't smile, don't even _breathe_ near any of her daughters, or she'll get the wrong idea. And whatever you do, under no circumstances, _ever_ try to-"

"Your excellency," a guard interrupted.

"Yes?"

"Lady Yao has requested an audience."

"Oh of course. Excuse me, Al," Ling followed his guard to the door. Alphonse panicked.

"But, wait, Ling, what were you going to say about-"

"It has to be _Your Excellency_ tonight, Al," Ling snapped at him, all bark and no bite. "You don't want to bring out my mother's claws, believe me." With that, the emperor abandoned his soon-to-be-sage to the horrors of his own imagination. Alphonse swallowed hard, and wished Mei had been invited to dinner too.

Somehow, Alphonse survived the dinner, but over the next few days had hardly a moment to recover. The Yao family was only the first clan to arrive. Not a day passed before the Jiang clan arrived, and after them, Yun clan, and then the Gui clan, then the Ren, Ji, and Ying clans, and another dozen-and-a-half clans that Alphonse was still trying to memorize, and the following week was so packed with arrivals, Alphonse could not remember all of the clan names. Absolutely last of all, the Changs arrived at the Imperial palace, and Mei paraded him around like a show pony for three whole days.

She spoke predominantly in Xingese with her family, and while Alphonse spoke considerably more than when he'd moved to Xing months and months ago, he was quickly lost in the chatter of the Chang family while Mei caught up on the news from her five sisters, three brothers, four aunts, five uncles, and nineteen cousins. He sat in one corner, sharing tea with Mei's deaf great-grandmother. Language alone made social situations an absolute minefield, and Alphonse had hoped that the silent ritual of tea would be a suitable diversion from conversation. It was difficult, however, to keep up with Grandmother Chang's appetite.

From his seat kneeling on the ground, he poured the matriarch her fourth cup of the evening, and she rewarded him with a wrinkled, approving half-smile. He smiled back, the only language they shared, and poured his own refill. He took a slow, appreciative drink, and then nearly spat it all out when he lowered his cup to find that a small girl had appeared in front of him.

"And what about you, Mister Alphonse?" It was Mei's youngest sister, a girl of only eight. She ignored it when Alphonse began to choke. She'd switched to stilted Amestrian to talk with him, which was almost as jarring as her sudden appearance. "How many brothers do you have?"

It must've been an attempt to include him into a conversation he'd missed. Even though Alphonse knew the pain in his chest was from poorly swallowed tea, it could have just as easily been the paralyzingly sudden homesickness. "Just one," he told her once he'd caught his breath, which was hoarse from trying not to cough. He carefully set his teacup aside, and did a double take when he realized Grandmother Chang had finished her glass again. He poured her another cup.

"Wow!" the girl said, not willing to let tea distract him from her questions. "I can't imagine only having one brother," she laughed. "Is he here, too?"

"No," Alphonse said, setting the pot aside. "No, he's back home with his family, in Amestris."

The girl fixed him with a inescapable look, the sort of piercing stare that children forget not to give to people because it's rude.

"How old are you?" she asked. Alphonse was taken aback.

"What?"

"How old are you? Mama says that you're the son of the Western Sage, but that can't be right, because he's ancient, and that would mean that you'd be ancient too, right?"

"No," Alphonse defended, "I'm nineteen."

"Oh," she said, disappointed.

"But he _was_ my dad," the Amestrian continued. "He was ancient, but that doesn't mean that I have to be."

"Was?" The girl frowned upon hearing the word. "What happened to him?"

"Well, he…" Alphonse hesitated. He didn't like talking about his parents, especially not with nosy children. "He died," he said.

The girl stared at him, and for a moment Alphonse wasn't sure if he should've been less blunt, but then the girl frowned and said,

"But the Western Sage is immortal," she reminded him. "That can't be him. The Western Sage can't _die_."

Alphonse pressed his lips into a tight line. _Maybe he can't, but my dad did._

The conversation lurked in the back of his mind for the rest of the evening, huddled on his shoulders like ballast. He wished he could talk with Ed, just to hear his voice, but Xing's capital didn't have telephones. Ling had one, he knew, hidden away for political use, but he wouldn't be allowed to make social calls with that. He glanced at Mei, who was ecstatic to be back among her mother's family, and was happily laughing and telling stories with her cousins. He couldn't possibly drag her away from this to listen to his own problems.

Alphonse glanced at the door. The Xingese conversation was tangled up in his ears like a knot he couldn't untie. He rubbed at his eyes. When he looked back up, though he hadn't seen her move the entire evening, great-grandmother Chang had nearly finished her tea. _How?_ He poured her the last cup in the pot and waited for to finish before he gave her a kind smile, gathered up the tea set, bowed deeply, and took his leave.

It was rude to leave without saying goodbye, and Alphonse wondered if Mei would come after him. He was grateful when she didn't. He found himself going to the gardens, which were always quiet at this time of day. The air was cool and appeared a misty blue, hovering between sunset and twilight. He gravitated toward the statue of his father, but stopped short.

It wasn't _really_ a statue of his father. It was a statue of the Western Sage. They were the same, but they weren't at all. The Western Sage was an image, a myth, a legend made of a man who lived centuries ago. Alphonse's heart ached with anger and homesickness and grief. He sank onto a bench by a burbling water fountain.

He hadn't known his father as long as he should've. Even after he told his sons about Xerxes and the homunculus, Hohenheim hadn't had time to tell them stories of his life, his travels, where he'd been. Alphonse hadn't even learned that his father was the Western Sage until Mei explained it to him. And then he'd come to Xing, and they all told him stories. When they were done with those stories, they told him more. They were fascinating at first, an amazing look into his father's past. He didn't know how many of the stories were true, but as twelve anecdotes became a hundred, and one hundred became two, Alphonse increasingly realized that Xing, a country where he was an outsider, knew his father better than he did.

And yet, they didn't. They had known Van Hohenheim as the Western Sage, and after nearly five hundred years of fermentation, the legends described the golden sage as a nearly supernatural being. The Sage was not only immortal, he was also all-knowing, and wise, and had perfect solutions to everything. He was powerful, but deferred to the Emperor, and kind, and so well-spoken his words were said to be magic. Some legends said he wasn't from Earth at all, and had been born in the heart of the sun.

It was amusing at first. But now,Alphonse wanted to shout. _No! He wasn't any of that! He wasn't a god, he was a man, a hurting, awkward man who loved my mother and left me and my brother before I can remember. He was a human, and he was ancient, and flawed, and horrible, and I miss him more than any of you idiots ever will._

And now the emperor wanted to make him his sage, like it was some sort of heritage. He grit his teeth and stood, foul mood following him as he retreated to his guesthouse.

* * *

The arrival of each clan set the court abuzz. Xing was a large country with a diverse people, and each clan had their own styles of dress, speaking, travelling. The usually-homogeneous palace was brought alight with dialects and accents from around the country. Lords and ladies of the clans arrived with massive teams of servants, and appeared in court in a rainbow of apparel: embroidered silk and billowing dresses, towering hair, carefully perched hats, beaded, shimmering crowns that defied gravity. Amidst the pageantry, Ling Yao was immovable.

Every clan, every leader, ever presentation in front of his throne was the same. Old, young, family, rivals, men, women, youth, aged. Each one came to face the raised throne, bowed to the earth, and addressed their emperor. Then, the Son of Heaven made them wait on him in silence for fifty long seconds, one equally long second for each clan he'd sworn to protect, not one longer or shorter than the rest. When at last he bid them to rise, they would do so with a contrite bend in their shoulders.

Looking at the emperor's face was like playing with fire, but when his vassals inevitably stole glances, Ling made sure they would all see the way he lifted his chin higher above their heads.

* * *

"Ling," Alphonse called, and Ling Yao, Emperor of Xing, Son of Heaven, fell out of his chair.

The ever-present specter of Lan Fan dropped from the rafters and landed on the porch at Alphonse's feet, kunai drawn.

"What the hell Al," Ling complained from the floor, clawing himself back upright.

"It's just me, Lan Fan," the alchemist said wearily. Lan Fan did not move, as if debating whether Alphonse Elric was, after all this time, a threat. Eventually she put her knives away, took two leaps across the wall, and disappeared into the shadows of the roof once more.

"I could have you executed for this," Ling threatened, dusting off his loose-fitting evening robes in violent pats. They were just as lush, though not quite as voluminous as the ones he wore during the day, and despite his angry expression, did not cut an intimidating figure. "I _should_ have you executed for this. Honestly, how did you even get _in_ here?"

Alphonse shrugged. "Last time I tried to get an audience with you, your attendants made me wait a day and a half."

Ling glared, flicked a speck of dirt off his shoulder, and decided not to repeat his question of _how._ "And last time, I got to stay in my chair." He crossed his arms, and glanced up at Lan Fan as if to say _look into it_. He returned his gaze to Alphonse. "What is it that you want?"

"Ling," Alphonse drew a breath to steady himself, "I can't be Imperial Sage."

Silence. It was impossible to tell if Ling ever blinked, and Alphonse privately suspected that he kept his eyes narrowed on purpose, to unnerve people when he stared at them as he was staring at Alphonse now.

"I've decreed it," Ling reminded him. "You _will_ be my Imperial Sage."

"And what if I refuse?"

" _Refuse?"_ Ling repeated, incredulity and something more dangerous in his tone. "Why on earth would you do that?"

After hours of stewing on the subject, Alphonse suddenly had no idea what to say. Flustered, he looked out over the garden that sprawled out beyond the rail of the porch and the dusky vista beyond. There were fireflies darting in and out of the ferns. "Because…" Alphonse hesitated. Had Ling ever even met Hohenheim? Greed had, but had Ling been there, too? Did they meet after the Promised Day - had Al missed that? Did it matter if he did or didn't know the man his country had made into a legend? The fireflies flashed again, and it reminded Alphonse of gold hair and gold eyes and all of Xing's stupid, fake stories about _gold._

"Because I'm not my father," Al blurted. "Because I'm not a sage. Because this whole thing is just… just... just _stupid,"_ he said lamely. "My father was Sage, four hundred years ago, but he was immortal and had a philosopher's stone, so of course he was. But now they're all these legends about him and they're all wrong, but people think that I can live up to that, but I _can't,_ and I can't go around pretending that I'm someone I'm not, that my dad was something more than he was, I just can't. I won't." He'd decided. "I won't be Imperial Sage."

Ling hadn't moved, and, as far as Alphonse could tell, hadn't blinked. "I'm sorry to hear that. Alright then," said the emperor. "You'll have to go back to Amestris. You won't be welcome back."

It was Alphonse's turn to freeze. "...What?"

Ling gave a stiff shrug. "If you don't want to be Sage, then fine, but you can't stay here if you're going to refuse."

Alphonse was dumbstruck, and stood gaping for several tense seconds before asking, " _Why?"_

"Because I am the emperor of Xing," Ling raised his voice, eyes opening so Al could see the dark irises shining with ambition, "and I cannot be disobeyed in my own country. If that doesn't suit you, go back to yours."

A new faultline opened in Alphonse's chest. He felt sick. "But… Ling, I thought we were friends," he said, voice soft and full of betrayal.

Ling held his ground, but after several moments, his shoulders slumped and his eyes narrowed once more. He sighed. "You're friends with Ling Yao, Alphonse. Unfortunately, he's also the emperor." Ling walked over to the railing and leaned against it, propping a hand against his chin to look out over his land. "I'm sorry. I don't want you to leave. But if you refuse to be Sage, I don't have a choice. I can't afford to be soft with my own inner court, and they've all accepted my decree. To let it go now would be weakness."

Alphonse watched the other man slump against the rail in his yellow silk robes and thought he looked like the loneliest man in the world. He remembered suddenly that Ling was only one year older than he was. He went over to lean beside him.

"I'm not a sage," Alphonse said softly. "I'm not my father. I'm sorry."

Ling snorted. "Of course you're not a sage, you're an Amestrian alchemist who can't even sign his name properly."

It only made it worse. "Then why did you appoint me? Why are you making me go through all of this? You know I can't do the job, what is the point?"

"Because you are the Son of the Western Sage," Ling told him.

"Oh, don't give me that crap," Al snapped. "My father wasn't a sage either. He wasn't a god, he wasn't some all-knowing wizard, he was a human, and he was an idiot, and he was my _dad_."

"He was a legend," Ling corrected, and gave his blond friend a chiding look. "And be careful how you throw around the past tense, most people here think he's still alive, somewhere."

"Well they're wrong," Al shot back. "He's dead. Granny buried him in Resembool and I didn't even get to say goodbye. The legends are all wrong." He glared at nothing. Ling looked out at the evening sky, watching as the stars began to wink awake and form constellations.

"My father was a legend too. Son of Heaven, infallible, incapable of defeat, all powerful, appointed by the gods themselves." It was the sort of stuff people said about Ling, nowadays. "He also snored in his sleep, couldn't perform mathematics to save his life, never hugged any of his children, and, lest we forget, died." Ling paused, but his face betrayed no emotion. "And I've filled his shoes and taken that same legend as my own, because I believe I can do good things for this country. I _know_ I can." Ling straightened up and looked at Alphonse.

"Legends aren't about true and false. They're about power. Sustaining the lie, getting people to buy into that lie, is how I'm going to change this country. I don't need you to be a sage, I don't need you to be your father. I just need you to stand in his place and sustain the lie."

Alphonse felt dirty, forced into a deceit he'd never agreed to. He stood to face Ling and crossed his arms. "So that's it? You just lie to everyone so you can get your way?"

"They know they're being lied to," Ling demurred. "No one but children actually believes those stories. People _knew_ my father, you know, they're not stupid. But our country is built on the currency of legends, and to be honest, I could use a little more currency right now." Alphonse sensed that Ling had more to say, so he stayed quiet and fixed the emperor with an expectant stare.

"I'm the youngest emperor Xing has had in generations," he said. "And I have some very… particular views."

"Protecting all the clans, not just the Yaos," Alphonse remembered.

"Among many other things. There are plenty of people who are happy to see me in charge, but there are a lot more who are not," Ling admitted. Alphonse had had no idea. "I've not been emperor for long enough to have complete control of my court - unless I decided to start chopping off heads tomorrow, but I'd really rather not. Too messy."

Alphonse didn't want to make comment on that.

"So to solidify my power, I need to make it myself. I'm not about to use a philosopher's stone, now that I know what they are. But I need to evoke the _memory_ of a philosopher's stone. Luckily for me, we had one centuries ago that had a _son,_ of all things," Ling gestured to Alphonse. "And if I get that son in my court, I can evoke the memory of a legend and use that power to put my clan leaders in their place." He turned back to the porch railing and spread his arms in a wide brace, looking out as if he were holding court.

"When your father arrived in this country, he heralded a new age, an age of alkahestry and unimaginable discovery. And now, we have a new emperor, a new sage, a new age. Alkahestry and alchemy can come together again, with your help, and through me, Xing can discover its own future. We can reignite the legends of _both_ our forefathers and use it to change things." He looked once again to Alphonse. " _That_ is why I appointed you. I thought you understood."

It took a minute, but eventually Alphonse said, "Ling…it's a beautiful vision, but Hohenheim… even if he were a legend, I'm just his son. Are you sure it'll work?"

" _Just,"_ Ling laughed. "Family inheritance matters more in Xing than it does in Amestris. It would work if you were his descendent of a hundred generations, but you're his _son,_ his son who looks a hell of a lot like him, too. No one is going to be able to ignore you. It will work. But for it to do any good, I need you on my side," Ling stepped over and looked Alphonse in the eye. Al had grown slightly taller than the emperor, but still found himself leaning back slightly from Ling's imposing presence.

"Legends are power, and you and I are some of the few people left in this world who have it in our blood. So," asked the Son of Heaven, eyes cracking open wider than normal to fix Alphonse with a iron stare. "Do you want to help me change the world, or not?"

"The world, or Xing?" Asked Al. Ling grinned, and for a fleeting moment he looked like Greed.

"Sure," he said.

After a moment of hesitation, Alphonse gave a half smile. "Alright," he said. The Son of the Western Sage and the Son of Heaven shook hands. With a lot to think about, Alphonse took his leave.

"You should come back tomorrow," Ling told him as he passed under Lan Fan's watchful gaze. "I'll teach you how to sign your name, so you don't embarrass us both at the ceremony."

I have to sign my name _during the ceremony?"_ Alphonse panicked. Ling sighed.

"Yes, unfortunately for both of us, you do."

* * *

When the last clan leader came to the palace for presentation, a large portion of Ling's court elected to be there. Da-Shin Shou was only two years older than the emperor, and her clan thought she would make a perfect choice for the emperor's first wife. She'd dressed for the occasion, bedecked in a lavish green chang'ao, with her hair combed to an impossibly smooth shine that fell across her back and shoulders like a waterfall. She wore an intricate silver crown with delicate chains that chimed and shimmered as she bowed her head to the ground and spoke her greeting in a clear, practiced voice. The few clansmen who'd been allowed to accompany her bowed with her and held their breath, wondering if the new emperor would take a shine to their eligible young leader.

Expressionless, Ling waited.

And waited.

With every moment of ear-splitting silence, Da-Shin sank into the pool of emerald silk around her. The hearts of her clansmen sank even faster.

"Rise," the emperor's bidding, after so long a wait, felt like a reprimand.

Da-Shin straightened and let her eyes drift over the Emperor's face on their way to the wall behind him. He saw her looking, and he lifted his chin.

* * *

A few days later, Alphonse learned that the 'ceremony' that everyone kept talking about was in fact the first full formal assembly of the Xingese court since Ling's ascent to the seat of Emperor.

"Wait, he's _never_ had a meeting of all of the clan leaders together before?" Alphonse had incredulously asked Mei when she'd told him.

"Xing is a big country, Alphonse. Do you know how long it takes to travel to the capital?"

"Well, sure, but… it's been three _years_ since the coronation."

"The Emperor didn't call court when he was first crowned," Mei explained. "He said it was so he could continue to mourn our father."

Alphonse' face scrunched up in confusion. "That doesn't seem like him."

Mei fixed Alphonse with a look that made him wonder, how long, exactly, Ling had intended to appoint him to his father's long-neglected seat. "No," she said.

* * *

Alphonse was only just beginning to grow accustomed to the slew of Xingese customs that surrounded everyday life, but the preparations for his debut in court were like arriving off the camel for the very first time all over again.

"No, no, further than that," Mei instructed from atop Alphonse's desk. She'd used Alphonse's apartment to stage a very rough replica of the throne room, Ling's dias denoted by Alphonse's desk at the far end of the hall, the standing spots of the court represented by chairs, pillows, and books. Alphonse, wearing a long evening coat to practice walking with a hem around his ankles, shuffled forward.

"Here?"

"No, a little further." Alphonse sighed, and shuffled further.

"Is this really necessary?" Alphonse looked up at her, and she frowned at him.

"Don't look at me, keep your head down. Hunch a little lower. No, not that much, you won't be able to walk. Okay, that's good. Keep your hands in. You shouldn't look at anyone. Okay. Just a little bit more. Good, now stop, kneel. Fix your robes. Good. And bow. Lower than that. Lower. The floor, Alphonse."

"Are you sure?" Alphonse whined to the floor, and then twisted his neck to look up at Mei. "It's just _Ling."_

"And he's the emperor, so _keep your head down,"_ she kicked out a foot as if to hit him on the nose. He sighed and put his face back down to the ground.

"I feel ridiculous."

"You are ridiculous, but you'll be a lot more ridiculous and a lot more dead if you look up right now."

" _Dead?"_ Alphonse's eyes shot wide, the floorboards the only witness to his horrified expression.

Mei ignored it. "Alright. And you're bowing, and you're bowing, and you're _not_ moving or looking up or doing _anything at all…_ good. And then he'll say something like," Mei cleared her throat and deepened her voice. "Rise,"

"And I can finally stand up," Alphonse heaved himself up.

"No, no, _no,"_ Mei waved her hands in annoyance.

"What'd I do _now?"_ Alphonse moaned helplessly.

"You stood way too fast - try it again. From the beginning."

Alphonse groaned, rubbed his face, shuffled back to the end of the hall, and started again.

Sometime after his tenth or eleventh run through that day, Ling's tailor had come by to present Alphonse with a blue silk zhiju, gushing about its elegance, the "stormy sky blue" silk, the subtle embroidery of the sun he'd woven into the black edge of its silver collar.

"It's a perfect replica, though I went ahead and updated the… er, the _tackiness_ endemic to sixteenth-century fashion, as I'm sure his grace will appreciate."

Behind the dressing screen, His Grace was trying to divine the purpose of a very, extremely, entirely too-long ribbon of black silk. "An exact replica of what?" he asked, trying to sound casual as he panicked over the garment. He'd dressed in plenty of hanfu since arriving in Xing, but this was a far, far nicer piece of clothing than he'd ever worn, and the amount of fabric was baffling.

"It was based on the zhiju that the Western Sage himself wore to court occasions," the tailor explained. "It is the exact same color. The sun, as his grace is sure to notice on the collar, is the symbol of the Sage's house."

 _Dad had his own symbol?_ "Oh."

He emerged after his best attempt at wrapping the garment, and was met by Mei's giggles and the tailor's horrified silence.

"I uh… I like the design," Al said, trying to be polite. Mei came to his rescue.

"You've got it wrong," she told him quietly, standing close to him, her head right under his chin as she untied the long black belt so she could rearrange the many collars.

"There are too many layers," Alphonse whispered frantically to her, face glowing red as she re-wrapped him. The tailor looked like he may pass out from the sheer offensiveness of it.

"That's how you know it's nice. Like this," Mei showed him, and then showed him how many times to wrap the belt around before tying it.

"Oh, I see," Alphonse tried to recover some dignity and finished the knot himself. Mei stepped back, and the mood of the tailor shifted as quickly as the stormy clouds he'd alluded to in the Sage's zhiju. He was so proud of himself he could've cried.

"Magnificent," the man gave a miniscule bow, "You look exactly like your father, if you do not mind me saying so, your Grace."

Alphonse looked in the mirror to his left, and his eyes flared wide when he realized that the tailor was right. The blue offset his golden hair and eyes, and despite the fact that he'd shaved just the previous day, there was a layer of golden hair visible just along the edge of his jaw. Alphonse was used to seeing Hohenheim's image when he looked at Edward, but never when he looked at himself.

"Thanks," he found himself saying. "It's perfect."

* * *

The day of the court assembly finally arrived. Mei wasn't allowed to accompany Alphonse all the way into the throne room. She did, however, escort him to the anteroom where he waited.

"You'll do great," she assured him, rearranging the ties on his belt while he looked, blanch-faced, to the massive set of doors that led to Ling's audience chamber. "Just do it exactly like we practiced."

"And sign my name after, right?"

"Yes," Mei fiddled with the cuff of one of his sleeves, trying to make sure it wouldn't fold over on itself. "It's the first full assembly of Ling's court, a record of attendance and occasion will go into the archives. At the end, Ling will sign first, and then the court will go forward to do the same, in order of seniority. You'll do great. Just follow everyone else's lead."

"Okay," Alphonse nodded, trying to steady his nerves. "Okay," he said again, and gulped.

Mei could see how scared he was, and giggled.

"What?" He frowned at her. She was smiling.

"You. You fight homunculi and chimeras and survive the end of the world, and you're scared of _Ling Yao."_

"I am not," Alphonse protested. "I'm scared of letting him down." _And letting dad down._

"You won't let him down," Mei said, and stood on her toes to kiss Alphonse's cheek. "You're Alphonse Elric. You'll be perfect."

His face relaxed, and gave her a smile. "Thanks, Mei."

Then, it was time.

Alphonse was walking at a normal pace down the long aisle leading to Ling's dias, but it felt like an eternity. Though hunched over in a near-bow, he snuck glances to his left and right, and was almost surprised to see people in place of books and chairs. He'd seen many of the clan leaders from a distance, but most of them had never met Alphonse, and some of them went wide-eyed when they saw him, faces registering something almost like recognition. He wondered if any of them had seen his father's portrait, if they'd seen any other images of the Western Sage that Alphonse hadn't.

 _No, don't think of that._

He made it to Ling's dias and folded into a full kowtow. After two mercifully short seconds, Ling bid him to rise. Alphonse kept his head bowed, and missed what happened next.

Quietly, without any expression to speak of, Ling dipped his head infinitesimally lower. At least three people gasped, and Alphonse had no idea why. He went bright red and glanced up, panicked, and caught sight of Ling's smile. The emperor gestured to an open space, and Alphonse was shocked to find that the empty spot allotted for him was not on the end of the hall, as he'd been led to believe it should be, but in the front row, directly in front of Ling.

He stood in place and folded his hands into opposite sleeves. He felt rather than saw the shock, the irritation of the clan leaders all around him, but he could read the satisfaction in Ling's face. He felt Xing - or perhaps the world - shifting.

The actual business of the assembly was incredibly formal and conducted in the most high-brow Xingese Alphonse had ever heard. He understood barely a third of it, and was grateful when he was not asked to contribute beyond a few formal recitations of fealty and well-wishes for the Emperor, which he'd been able to practice beforehand. At the close, an attendant crawled over to the throne to present Ling with a beautifully drawn document meant to commemorate the occasion. While the servant held the board in front of him, Ling pressed his seal to the paper and signed his name next to it.

The servant moved the document on its tray to a table which two other servants set up at the base of Ling's raised dias.

It was time for the court to sign their names, but no one stepped forward. It took Alphonse several sweaty moments to realize that half of the court was staring at him in expectation. He panicked again, and again glanced up at Ling. The emperor pretended not to see him, but tilted his head ever so slightly as if to say _get the hell on with it._

Oh.

" _In order of seniority,"_ Mei had said.

Oh _god._

Alphonse knew he had to step forward before his brain had a chance to comprehend the controversy of it. Very mindful of the hem of his robe, he stepped up to the table and took up the brush with a shaking hand. He had to work incredibly hard not to let the tip of his tongue escape his mouth as he carefully, steadily signed his name. He stepped back into place and let the other nobles and ministers take their turns in silence. While they did, Al dared one more glance at Ling. The smile he saw hiding at the corner of the emperor's mouth was Ling, but it was an expression Alphonse had only ever seen after Ling's friendship with Greed.

Later that evening, after the ceremony was over, Alphonse found Ling on a secluded balcony, hiding in the shadow of the roof so he could watch the delegations from all the clans milling in the courtyard, undetected. The emperor seemed to sense the other man's presence.

"They're not going to like you, you know," Ling didn't turn around as Alphonse stepped up beside him. "Not for a while, anyway – especially the Yaos."

"Wish you had told me that beforehand," Alphonse grumbled, but they both knew he didn't really mean it.

"Oh, they'll come around. All of them. And then," still in his gold-embroidered court apparel, Ling wrapped an arm around Al's somewhat taller shoulders. "We'll change the world."

Alphonse shook his head, but Ling's confidence was intoxicating. He listened to the clan leaders below bicker with each other, casting side-eyes and sneers. He smiled. "It won't be easy."

"Of course it won't," Ling shrugged, and nudged his friend. "That's what legends are for."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** For anyone who is interested, this fic, from start to finish, was entirely based on an idea I had while listening to "Run Free" by Thomas Bergersen.


End file.
